I AM
by BlueJayJazz
Summary: Lestrade breaks a heart Sherlock didn't even knew he had. Now the Consulting Detective must face the prospect of emotions, with the aid of John, and find a happy ending somewhere along the way. Mystrade, eventual Sherstrade


**I AM**

By BlueJayJazz

Sherlock Holmes' recollection of the Wednesday night of February 10th was vague to say the least, for a man as sharp and mindful as he. It was one he hadn't had any reason to truly remember, just one of those days that _happened_, wasn't memorable or important, was just a day that past in order to bring about more days that may prove to be a bit more useful.

But what Sherlock didn't know was that that particular night was what brought about the process of his own, untimely, unfortunate, and entirely preventable heartbreak.

The great detective had many days like that Wednesday, ones he disregarded and deleted in all aspects of the word. He had no need to recall them, so why bother? But there was one rather relevant thing that occurred that night that Sherlock should've done well to remember, one that could have saved his cold stony heart. If only, if only.

If only he had seen that touch, that lingering moment, that quick chaste peck of lips, that was exchanged between two highly relevant men.

One of the two, was none other than DI Lestrade, the man Sherlock had for about a month now held some amorphous form of affection and, rather dreaded as it was for Sherlock, _attraction_. Like a deep draft of human emotion amidst a lifelong fast from such, were Sherlock's feelings for Mr. Lestrade.

But, as it were, there was a small matter of things that would surely complicate the situation. Oh if only he'd seen, on that dull Wednesday of February, three months ago, that Kiss. That touch.

Between DI Lestrade and his own brother, Mycroft Holmes.

"Oi mate, off to the pub for a round of drinks! You up?"

That sentence started his downfall, that almighty downfall of Sherlock Holmes.

It's strange, the human mind. Full of chemicals and reactions and _chain_ reactions which lead, oddly enough to Sherlock, to the greatest detective in the world agreeing to go do such a mundane, _ordinary_ thing like have drinks with coworkers. Or in this case, a coworker. One he was, quite truthfully, falling in love with.

Love, Sherlock loathed the word, loathed the connotations, loathed the chemicals involved, loathed the people involved; ergo himself and Gregory Lestrade. But Sherlock wasn't immortal, and alien, a god, made of stone, made of ice. No he was human and was susceptible to human emotions, even though he made a conscious effort not to. Henceforth, that chemical reaction that made his heart go 'thump-athump' when Lestrade turned to him with Sherlock's name on his lips, also made him pipe up with an affirmative to the aforementioned statement that started it all. Drinks.

"Yes." Was all Sherlock said, an immediate answer that didn't even pass mentally through his mind. It was answer that went straight from his heart to his mouth and onward.

And so the story begins.

The pub was, to say the _very_ least, dull, boring, and _human_.

There was a thin layer of grunge and filth, unnoticeable to anyone but Sherlock and maybe a health inspector, and the definite stench of booze and perspiration. The air had that muggy heat of a room full of fat and/or drunk Britons and no air conditioning,

Sherlock strode swiftly across the squeaky floor, avoiding contact with everyone he passed.

"I didn't think you'd show." Lestrade was already well on his way to being intoxicated by the time Sherlock found himself at his side, a beer in hand. His pupils were dilated, his speech clumsy and slurred, hands uncoordinated.

"As I've proven time and time again, Inspector, your preliminary assumptions are usual incorrect." Sherlock replied calmly, seating himself beside the swaying man. It was curious, the strange romance between man and his alcohol.

"You're late though, so m'not that far off…" Lestrade giggled, his drunken mind finding humor somewhere Sherlock couldn't see.

"It's rather dull, having a companion who has already drunk away reality." The detective drawled as Lestrade belched obscenely.

"…yer jus' a stickler fer being a statue, is all." Came the reply, voice wet with intoxication.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a heavy breath. "I might as well get you home. God knows you're incapable of making it yourself."

"Bollocks, I can get 'ome jus' fine-" Lestrade stood up with an air of confidence and fell down with the grace of a sack of potatoes.

Sherlock bent over and hoisted the DI up, holding the elder by the waist waist, slinging the drunks arm over his own shoulder to provide support.  
>Together they trudged with difficulty out the door, Sherlock didn't even bother check to see if Lestrade had paid for his drinks yet. It was one of those irrelevancies he couldn't be arsed with.<br>Especially when a quite dashing detective inspector was hanging of you, eyes gleaming bright with intoxication, bated breath on your neck…  
>The smell of alcohol was heavy on Lesteade's breath, mingling with the salty stench of his sweat as the older man huddled closer, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder.<p>

Sherlock couldn't deny he rather enjoyed the close physical contact, but he refused to admit he was smitten with the DI. Sherlock Holmes didn't bother with rubbish like love. It only made hearts hurt and minds dull.  
>But with the warmth of the older man clinging to his skinny chest, Sherlock could pretend he was normal and could fall in live. He could pretend the DI holding him returned his pretend feelings. It was nice.<p>

They were stumbling down the dimly lit street, sprinkles of snow illuminated by the eerie yellow glow of the frosted streetlight that reflected in Lestrade's dark blue eyes. They were a still a few blocks away from Lestrade's flat, and Sherlock's joints ached and creaked with the chill, but his chest and neck were warm from his companion's fumbled embrace and heated breath.

Sherlock regarded Lestrade's drunken state with amusement. He himself had rarely become as such, barely ever picking up a bottle of alcohol. There had been a few lonely nights in uni, and also during detox after Lestrade brought up the ultimatum of 'cocaine or crime scenes, your choice'.

"Sherllllock, I got sumtin' t' tell you." Said detective inspector suddenly slurred, glancing up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

His heart thudding painfully, feeling a release of adrenalin at the prospect of what Lestrade may say next. Sherlock cursed his unbidden feelings, but couldn't quell the dread and excitement coursing through him.

"What is it?" He replied calmly, averting his eyes.

"Thank you…" Lestrade giggled, gripping Sherlock's coat in his hands. "I jus' wanted t' say thank you."

"For what?"

And came forth the words that broke a heart he didn't even know he had.

"…fer introducing me t' yer brother. Never woulda hooked up wif Mycroft if ye hadn't introduced us." Lestrade hiccup.

Sherlock had no reply. There wasn't a reply he could give. Instead he shoved the remnants of his shattered heart and human emotions to the back of his soul, to leave there to rot, and took a deep shuddering breath.

His feelings for Lestrade had been what was turning Sherlock from the cold, unfeeling creature he'd been to the human, empathetic man he was today. But now, with those uttered words, it was all dashed to hell. The heart inside Sherlock that Lestrade had created was new and raw, easily damaged, easily destroyed.

After he deposited the drunk man at his home, Sherlock wandered down the streets of London, 221B being his final destination, but not quite feeling the urge to get there quiet yet.

He took his time, letting himself sit in his pool of emotions, letting the brokenness mould him and ravage him. He shouldn't, he knew, but he wanted to. Sherlock was a man who never felt much, and he enjoyed the feeling of being hurt emotionally in a twisted, Sherlock-like way.

By the time he got to the steps of the flat he and John lived in, he was shivering from cold and covered in snow, ice crusting the corners of his eyes.

John was aghast at his appearance, but didn't push him to ask about what was wrong. That was why Sherlock liked John, why John was his friend, his only friend. He knew to keep his distance when need be, knew how to give space and comfort at the same time.

He helped Sherlock dry off, and went to go make some tea while he changed into warm and dry clothes.

"...So. Rough night?" John handing Sherlock his tea, voice light.

Sherlock grunting quietly, blowing the steam from his mug.

John knew to back off, and sat down with his book. "Want to watch some telly?"

And Sherlock did. Never had he wanted to drown himself in crap television so much in his life.

* * *

><p>John watched his friend sink into the couch, leaning his head against the armrest. He was the absolute picture of misery, drawn face and dark eyes brooding and elsewhere.<p>

Sherlock had confide in him months ago about his feelings for Lestrade, and John had done his best to be supportive. He wanted nothing else then for Sherlock to finally get in a relationship with someone, it hurt to see his friends so alone.

He himself had been infatuated with Sherlock in the beginning, but had refrained from saying so. Eventually he realized that a relationship between them would never work, besides, the friendship they had was far to dear to screw up with sexual and romantic things. John no longer thought of Sherlock in the way he had, instead they were brothers, the best of brothers. And it made him sad to see Sherlock look so depressed and heartbroken.

John wondered what had happened, perhaps he'd confessed to Lestrade and been rejected? That was the worst case scenario, but somehow he didn't think Sherlock was the type to confess his feelings. Instead he always imagined Sherlock would forever cling to his emotions and simply let them rot away inside him.

John glanced over at Sherlock, whose eyes had slipped shut and his chest heaved with sleep-breath.

It was nice to see him finally getting some sleep. God knows how long it's been since he'd last laid to rest.

* * *

><p>The crime scene was located behind a large corporate office building, Sherlock could practically <em>smell<em> the sent of business and dry cleaned suites wafting off the place.

He'd been reluctant to attend in truth. He'd not wanted to see Lestrade's face, not after that night, not after what he did to Sherlock's heart. But the need to fulfill that ever starving itch, that need to quell the mind ripping boredom, far surpassed his emotional turmoil. It always would, it was fact.

As Sherlock surveyed the scene, he could feel a prickle in the back of his neck. Lestrade was watching him, was giving off an aura of uncertainty.

"Eh, Sherlock?" Lestrade trotted up to him after Sherlock'd solved the case a mere ten minutes after arriving.

"What is it?" He responded coldly, throat constricting on words he could never say.

"A- About the other night. Did I- Did I say anything, um-"

"Congratulations. On you and my brother." Sherlock bit snappily, "You two were made for each other. Neither of you can form a coherent sentence and neither can deny the prospect of doughnuts." With that he turned away and joined John near the parkinglot where their cab was waiting, leaving the DI to sputter.

"That was a bit not good Sherlock. It's not his fault-" John began, but seemed to think better of his words. "He doesn't know, Sherlock. You can't blame him."

The Consulting Detective had nothing to say to that, refused to admit he was in the wrong.

"…I know it's awful Sherlock, what you're going through, but don't take it out on them. You don't want to hurt them, you know you don't. Especially not Greg."

Sherlock was really regretting telling John about this whole situation. He didn't need school counselor talk, he didn't _want_ school counselor talk.

The ride home was quiet, both friends looking out their respective windows, until Sherlock spoke up with a low, whispery voice;

"How do you people stand it?"

John started, "Pardon?"

"Emotions. How on earth do you _cope_? Living with them day in, day out…" Sherlock trailed off, mouth hesitant on the sentence.

John paused a moment, studying his flat mate. "You weren't completely emotionless Sherlock, you're not that new to it, right?"

Sherlock didn't respond at first, shifting in his seat. These sort of conversations weren't his forte, he didn't do heart to heart talks, but the need to connect on some level was too strong. The pain was too… painful. He didn't want to know he was a freak and no one felt like this but him.

"When I was younger I was scared all the time." He finally admitted in a calm voice. "I stopped feeling things when I got into school."

"You didn't have any emotions at all? Ever?" John gasped in shock, and a sort of horror that confused Sherlock.

"In uni I got into drugs, I felt some emotions then. Since, though, it's always been… watered down and locked up, so to speak." Sherlock frowned, pondering. "I felt… but I didn't feel very much. Until…"

"Until Lestrade."

"Until Lestrade." Sherlock agreed reluctantly.

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, then John looked up at Sherlock.

"Which did you prefer? Being emotionless or feeling emotions?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. Being emotionless was more practical, easier to deal with, and helped with his work more often then not.

But it was an empty, hollow existence… and this feeling inside him was so burning and _alive_. Even though it hurt, he couldn't say it wasn't better than nothing at all.

But he couldn't say it was, either.

"I don't know." Sherlock finally replied, an edge on his voice cutting off all need for continuing the conversation. Soul searching was never a thing Sherlock needed to do before now, because he'd always known everything about himself. His mind palace was to tidy and orderly for any confusion or haze, until Lestrade came into the equation and used a wrecking ball on the corner of his mind that dealt with emotions and emotional harmony.

* * *

><p>John found it interesting to watch Sherlock deal with his problem, to say the least.<p>

He felt bad for him, sure. Awful in fact. Sherlock, emotionally, was like a child who didn't know what to do. And Lestrade had just stolen all his candy.

He had theory, actually. John's theory was that because of Sherlock's lack of emotion as a teenager, he'd never gone through the turmoil that came with adolescence. He'd never gone through the raging hormones and feelings and desires, the ups and down and the train wreckage that was adolescence. But now, with his 'crush' on Lestrade that initiated him clicking back with his emotional self, all that was coming down on him.


End file.
